


Fallen Down

by Space_gays_that_arent_in_space



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Child Abuse, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Infidelity, Heavy Angst, Human Gamzee, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Karkat Swearing, Kissing, M/M, Minor Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Gamzee Makara, Recreational Drug Use, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sad Gamzee, Teen Angst, Trans Karkat Vantas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27397306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_gays_that_arent_in_space/pseuds/Space_gays_that_arent_in_space
Summary: The first time that you ever see him, it’s 10pm next to the dumpsters behind your local Walmart. Your van is so close, so close that you can easily read the plate in the dark and see the way the church’s logo curls all over the side, its name practically emboldened by the darkness. Then, there he is, all suddenly appearing beneath the motherfucking street lamp with a cigarette between his lips and scorn in his eyes. You don’t know what it is about him, with his oversized, bright red hoodie, or his scuffed up shoes, or the hair so wild it calls out to you, begging your hands to get lost in it, but you’re drawn to him. He is bright as a shooting star, he is an angel falling right from heaven sent down to bless you. You feel it deep in your bones, right down into your core.
Relationships: Gamzee Makara & Karkat Vantas, Gamzee Makara/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	Fallen Down

**Author's Note:**

> Once again thank you to my new good pal gothic_gore !!! This entire fic is based off of like a three day conversation we had about the idea of Gamzee and Karkat being two traumatized ass teenagers who meet behind a Walmart and start hanging out. There's a lot more stuff that I just didn't know how to implement that we talked about but I hope you like this. Maybe one day I'll give it a come back as something longer. Also, once more, huge creds to gothic_gore, esp for the convo with Gamzee and his dad because that was heavily based off of something they showed me!!

The first time that you ever see him, it’s 10pm next to the dumpsters behind your local Walmart. Your van is so close, so close that you can easily read the plate in the dark and see the way the church’s logo curls all over the side, its name practically emboldened by the darkness. Then, there he is, all suddenly appearing beneath the motherfucking street lamp with a cigarette between his lips and scorn in his eyes. You don’t know what it is about him, with his oversized, bright red hoodie, or his scuffed up shoes, or the hair so wild it calls out to you, begging your hands to get lost in it, but you’re drawn to him. He is bright as a shooting star, he is an angel falling right from heaven sent down to bless you. You feel it deep in your bones, right down into your core. 

You’d gone to church that morning with your father, listened to his sermon and drank up the words of the lord, for there really is nothing else you can do. You sat and listened to your father promise sin to those who didn’t follow, you listened to your heart die a little bit more. It was wilting, rotting like a bouquet that had been mistreated, and you suppose that it motherfucking has been. Your heart has been being mistreated for a long motherfucking time, but it’s gotten so much worse since your most miraculous brother was forced on out of the house. Now, you’re alone, you’ve been alone for half a year now, alone with nothing but your father and his lord. You remember praying this morning, praying for something to eat up that loneliness that swirls all within you. You remember praying and pleading and offering up every part of yourself, all for the sake of feeling just a little bit more whole again. 

Now, here he is, cherry lighting up the darkness, haloed all up by the light and bringing with him the brisk scent of stale coffee and musk. He glares at you, puffing out a bit of smoke and making it dance all into the air. 

”What the fuck are you staring at? If you want to get up and, I don’t know, stab me or something, then I’d much rather you say it instead of staring there gaping like a fucking fish that’s inept at coming up with the proper murder plot to kill someone behind a Walmart who then, after having his victim escape him, goes on a hunt around town for the sake of hunting down the one individual who has seen his face and thus knows the truth of the persona outside of the atrocities” His voice buzzes into the air-into your ears, and you feel yourself swoon a little. 

You open your mouth to speak, nothing comes out but a hoarse noise. It’s been so motherfucking long since you’ve last said anything, so long that your mind escapes when it was. Maybe it was when you said goodbye to Kurbro? Or maybe your final words to Tavbro? That was all around the same time, it very well could’ve been the last time you and Kurloz had the chance to buy scratch-offs from the miraculous little lady down at the gas station. You can’t be entirely sure. Even still, that doesn’t matter now, not when this motherfucking miracle before you is staring at you with such an intensity-such a heat-that you’re sure you’re going to melt soon. 

”I, uh,” You pause and finally give yourself the chance to clear your throat “I was just looking at you brother, all miraculous ‘n shit all up under those lights ‘n all. Kinda be lookin’ like an angel if you get my drift?” 

He laughs, it’s ugly and loud and obnoxious. You like it. 

”If I’m an angel then you’re Jesus fucking Christ. No, you know what, if I’m an angel then whatever fake fucking God is out there is free to strike me here and right the fuck now “ He laughs again, taking a drag from his cigarette right after. 

His comment is funny, sort of. Funny in a way that makes you laugh and makes you wonder. Your father would hate him, he’d hate this boy in front of you so bad that he’d beat you just for being caught near him, but you think that his words are funny, they’re motherfucking jocular and they make your mood just a little bit better. 

”Angel or not brother, you’re free to take a motherfucking seat if you need one” 

He pauses then, staring at you as his cherry lights up in the dark. The bags under his eyes are prominent, more so than they probably usually are because of the high exposure and heavy shadows of the street lamps. You scoot to the side, patting the piece of sidewalk beside you as he watches with the sort of hesitance that can only be found trusting the kid you’ve just met behind the Walmart. Even still, he takes his seat next to you. He radiates an absolute warmth, like he was born in the eighth motherfucking circle of hell. Up close you feel sure that he’s an angel, sure in the fact that he is impossibly ethereal and beautiful, maybe he’s fallen, or maybe angels really are creatures so divine you find yourself unable to do anything. You don’t do anything, really. Neither does he. You two just sit in silence, you smoking what weed you have left and this lovely, miraculous motherfucking mystery, blowing through cigarettes like the motherfuckers are trying to run from him. You feel a sense of kinship in your silence, like he’s blowing out every one of his sins, every single one of his pains and aches that run deep deep within him. You blow out yours too, sit there and smoke out your fear and your hurt and your loss and your agony. 

You’re the one to stand up first, and when you do, he finally moves his gaze from the chain link fence that covers the back. 

”You should come back tomorrow night brother, a motherfucker really enjoyed your company” You offer him one of your big grins and hope it’ll be enough to convince him. 

You walk right over to your van and offer him a wave as you climb in, he gives you the smallest of waves back, eyes still not very focused on anything in particular and expression raw. You go home, airing out the van and thinking of Kurloz, and it is in your thinking about him that you realize how freeing it was to speak to someone else, how you were slightly less motherfucking lonely than you have been. He is that angel you so deeply prayed for, that you are sure of. 

Your father reprimands you for being home late, his booming voice shaking you right down to your soul. His eyes are wild, like a man ready to go to war, he looks this way always, and you have to wonder why you and he are so different. He screams at you for a long time, till it feels like you’re motherfucking leaking from the ears. He tells you things you’ve heard before, about your grades and about your brother and about this God fearing life that you lead. All of it is the same, all of it aches in your chest the same, and when you lay in bed that night, you pray that you’ll see your angel once again. You clutch your beads tight in your hands and you beg, for you have no other options. 

He comes back the next night, and even still you’re motherfucking just as surprised as the first. He’s wearing the same thing, same hoodie, same beaten up motherfucking converse, the only change is the curls of his hair, where it swoops up versus being matted down. Either way, he still looks like an angel to you. He sits down beside you yet again, and you can’t resist the words you feel bubbling all up in your motherfucking throat. 

”A motherfucker is glad to see you back, brother” 

”Whatever, I just figured that it’s better to smoke with someone who, at the very least, can fend off potential murderers, even if your stupid fucking clown make up makes you look like one yourself.” 

You laugh, it’s so much quieter than it used to be. You remember back when you’d howl, scream, lose your motherfucking mind in the mirth of it all, and now all you can muster is a weak, low chuckle. He doesn’t seem to notice it though. No, instead this little miracle beside you just smokes his cigarettes, and you drink up the smoke of your joint, letting your head swim and the mirth fill you almost artificially. 

”The name is Karkat, by the way.” 

You pause for a minute, taking that motherfucking name in and letting it roll all over your pan till it sinks in. It’s red like food coloring, like blood, like wine. It is bright and blossoming as much as it is muted in dim. Karkat. Karkat. Karkat. Karkat. 

”Nice to meet you, Karbro, you can call a motherfucker Gamzee” 

He squints at you, all scowly and ready to make another funny little comment, but decides against it. 

He keeps coming back, night after night after night, in his spot right beside you. You never really say anything of meaning to one another, you don’t have to. All you need is this silence, so sweet and comfortable. You go to the same school, you find this out when you see him in the halls, cuddled up under some blond kid, always in shades. He looks happier in the hallways than he does with you, no more with that far off look in his eye, instead there’s something there that’s more steady. Solid as a rock and protecting whatever unholy feelings he has when he sits with you. 

You find yourself watching him often, watching the way that his friends crowd him, the way that he plays angry when really the motherfucker is all too happy to be around them. It makes you jealous, makes you lonely. You know most of the kids Karbro hangs around, all because of your big bro letting you tag along with them. You know Solbro through Tuna, you two haven’t spoken since you were the ittiest of itty bitty motherfuckers, Catsis through Meulin, the loveliest set of ladies you know, and you know Latula, skater-sis, never close enough to truly reach but always kind. You used to hang out with them when Kurloz did, always the youngest, the baby of the group. Now, they’re all gone. Been gone for a few months now, and you’re alone. None of their younger siblings, the motherfuckers your age, want very much to do with you save for the miracles you hand out, and you don’t particularly blame them. Not when you’ve gained what reputation you have, so it’s easier to simply accept the isolation, and pray for the day that it finally slips out of your mirthless motherfucking soul. 

Karbro is the kindest motherfucker you’ve ever met. So very motherfucking kind that it makes your aching inside all the motherfucking worse. You see the small things about him, the way his eyes get all soft and just a tad bit motherfucking watery when he finally let’s his shoulders get their motherfucking slump on beside you, the way that his hands shake whenever he smokes his cigarettes, how he clutches that red hoodie-The Blond Boy’s red hoodie-all up and close to his motherfucking chest, like he’s trying to hide away into it. It’s strange, but you know that you’re all that much stranger. You don’t acknowledge those things about each other, it doesn’t matter. It can’t matter because all that matters right now is the way that he eats up your motherfucking loneliness like an invasive species. It isn’t until the cold sets in, well and deep into the month of November, that you change this little pattern. 

You’re sitting beside one another, like always, the dark of night covering everything up so much fast that time doesn’t even feel real anymore, and he’s shaking so motherfucking hard that you can’t help but pity him. He’s a leaf in the wind, and you want to protect him. Maybe that analogy doesn’t exactly work, it doesn’t have to, you decide. Instead, you open your mouth, letting smoke fall out of it before you speak. 

”Brother, you’re looking real motherfucking cold, would you maybe wanna get all up in my van and partake in the miraculous fucking warmth that’s in there?” 

Karbro stares at you for a long while, he wants to say something mean, cranky and snarky as always, but instead he just nods, sticking his cigarette between his lips and jamming his hands into his pockets. The van is cold still, and when you turn the engine on the air bursts out and smells just like the church. It always does, somehow. You like it though, and really all you can hope is that Karbro likes it too. He sits with his legs all close to him, still letting out little whirls of smoke with his cherry illuminating the fucking darkness. You sit across from him and tuck your blunt behind your ear, you much rather air out the smell of nicotine than weed. 

In the darkness of the van, how miraculous of a motherfucker it is, he reaches a hand out to you. His face looks flush-is flush, and you feel something tug at your heart in your motherfucking chest. You take his hand in yours, and he feels no cooler than the night you met him. He is an electrical fire, bright and beautiful. He is your angel, your starlight, he is everything that you prayed for, and you feel that in the palm of his hand, beating and warm and alive. The silence is now overtaken by the hum of the heater, it is new and disrupts your flow, and yet it grows on you as the seconds tick by, his hand in yours. 

The handholding becomes more commonplace, and with that hand holding you unlock something even more sacred, his voice. 

Karkat’s voice is a blessing unto your ears, his ugly little laughs and the big peaks and valleys in his motherfucking speeches to you. You want to ask him what he wants to be when he gets grownup, ask if he plans on being a politician or something else where he can put that voice of his-those words of his-to a real good fucking use, but you haven’t yet. His voice brings you to a miraculous motherfucking calm that you had never thought possible and it makes you all the more want to share it with the world, and hold this all too new peace of your close to your chest. You begin to talk to him back. You talk to him about the things that scare you and the things that make you happy, the things that really make a motherfucker think about what goes bump in the night and all of those skeletons he stacked on top of one another in the fucking closet. 

”There’s this motherfucking closet all up in my house...it’s for praying...and only when you’ve been real motherfucking mirthless. I remember, back when Kurbro lived with us, he’d be there all the motherfucking time. Even more so than he was in our room.” 

Karbro’s got his hands all up in your hair, braiding it. He listens to you as you go on about the prayer room, never once saying a word as he fits you with these miraculous little motherfuckers. He doesn’t say anything when you finish. When you tell him about that room made of nightmares, dominated only by broken mirrors and the messiah, that room that lives as the Eyes of God in your home. He doesn’t need to though, instead, he pats your face and lets out little shushes. It isn’t until he finishes with these hushses that you realize you’ve started crying. It hurts to let it all out, to talk about Kurbro with someone who doesn’t hare him. It hurts in the very best of motherfucking ways. 

He tells you about his boyfriend, Dave. 

”He’s a complete an utter asshole who has an aggressive narcissism streak and can’t tell that he looks like a fucking douchebag all the time, but it’s kind of sweet, y’know? He’s so fucking open, and he’s weirdly nice to everyone. It makes me wonder what the hell he wants with someone like me when he really does have better options out there, especially because we got together a while ago. Me last year was fucking terrible, I was self absorbed just as much as I hated and pitied myself, and yet Dave still wanted to be with me. So now, I find myself having to wonder if there’ll be someone to who’s going to come around and try to take him away or something even though there are times where I’m not even sure if I really want him.” 

His words are a rush of air, like he’s been waiting to say these things for such a long time. You know that he has, you know that he stores them up right behind those stony daytime eyes of his. You take his hand in yours and squeeze it tight. 

”It’s okay if a motherfucker wants to reconsider his options” is all you can really say to him. 

He doesn’t seem displeased by it, though he doesn’t quite seem any happier. Instead he looks at you with something unreadable, the sort of face you catch glimpses of when you catch him in the hallway. You have to wonder if it means something, or if he is simply protecting himself a little bit more than he would have before. It hurts to think that he needs to protect himself from you, when all you want in the motherfucker is his genuine love, whether that be as a brother or something a little bit sweeter, but you decide to keep trying. 

Things escalate after that in the most minute of ways between the two of you. Never at school do you interact with him, but as August turns to September and September to November. December preys upon you with a speed the likes of which you have never seen. No more is that slow crawl toward the end of the year, not when you have this one thing to truly look forward to. You and Karbro find yourselves spending more time in the back of the van, cuddled all up close next to each other for the sake of your warmth. You start collecting blankets, putting them all up into the back for the two of you. That doesn’t stop you from cuddling though, limbs all snaked up in each other’s, feeling his heartbeat right against yours. He keeps that red hoodie on though, like some sort of warning-like a siren calling you in. 

It is after one of your rendezvous that you arrive home to an empty house. You feel a sense of freedom, and yet your loneliness consumes you even further. On the fridge, held up by a motherfucking cross magnet, is a note from your father. 

_To my beloved son,_

_I plan to spend the next fourteen days at a conference for other pastors and deacons in the area, all for the sake of educating one another on what the right way to praise the lord’s name. I will be sure to show those heretical motherfucking fools the way of light. Expect my return in two weeks time. You already know my expectations of you. If you fail to meet them then please do expect the most brutal of motherfucking punishments._

_Yours,_

_Father_

It’s on a particularly cold December night that you find yourself struck with the urge to kiss your beloved Karbro. Only a few months since you’ve met, since you’ve taken on this ritual of loving and hearing each other in the way that no one else will, and all you want is to plant one on your most beloved of motherfuckers. 

He’s looking at his phone, last of his cigarette thrown out into the snow drifts awaiting you in the back of Walmart. It’s odd, the little world you two have created for yourselves here, and yet you love it. You love it more than anything else, for this world is yours and yours alone, and no one will ever find you. This world is one in which only you and Karbro exist, and the mirthless, cruel eyes of God can bear no judgement down upon your motherfucking soul. You think not of the repercussions, of how sinful and motherfucking unholy what you’re doing is. No, instead, you lean in to kiss him, and you do. 

He’s stunned at first, he tenses up in a way that scares you much as the kiss scares him, and you can’t help but wonder if maybe you’ve been reading motherfucking everything all wrong and you’ve now ruined the only friendship you’ve had in almost seven years. You pull away, his lips taste like nicotine. He gapes at you for a while, leaning in and kissing you again. It’s chaste, gentle, and you can’t ignore the way your heart all up and motherfucking flutters in your chest. You don’t think of his boyfriend, or your father, or what the lord would think anymore. No, instead you think only of his lips, his lips and how wonderful he feels so close to your body. He’s hot, radiating that same miraculous motherfucking warmth he always does, and you just wanna wrap him all up in your arms. 

Your mouth moves slow against his, gentle little hymns sang right against him. It feels like the creation of something, hot and bright and bursting within you. It is a birth for the name of these feelings that you so have for this sweet motherfucker before you. You cup his cheeks in your hands, feel the give they have, and he wraps his hot hands right around your wrists, squeezing you motherfucking tight. 

You don’t go very far at all, only open mouthed kisses, one with the threat of leading to more, but never quite tilting you over that oh so very motherfucking precarious edge that you find yourselves staring at. Even still, that miraculous motherfucking kissing-indulging yourselves in each other’s taste so very motherfucking much, it is the breaking of a very special kind of dam between the two of you. 

The unholiness of all of this does not escape you. No more is your excuse of Karkat being a very dear brother in a time of need, for he is now your angel. He’s something entirely more, though you have known that for a long time now. As you kiss him, you think about how much more you want him, you think about how he is the best motherfucking thing to happen to you. It feels so good, he is bleeding warmth all up into you, and you cannot resist grinning. That grin morphs itself into a giggle and that giggle into a chuckle and suddenly you find yourself howling with no kisses anywhere in sight. Karbro is laughing too, like he’s in on the joke, and when you meet his eyes you can just see that he is. You kiss him again and again and again and again and again. His mouth is miraculous, and you simply want it all up and against yours for the rest of eternity. 

You get to kiss him more after that, kiss him in ways that make you sure your soul will burn. It is not slow anymore. It does not need to be, and in the van your world is just a little bit wider. You may breathe untethered to the world of your father. 

Your father returns sooner than expected, and the wrath that you face is brutal. You know him through the smell of his expensive motherfucking whiskey and the strength of his scent, old bibles and the church’s incense. You close the door as motherfucking soft-like as you can, each moment praying to yourself that he will not call to a motherfucker, praying that he will let you go free to your room. 

”Son,” 

You freeze, and try to imagine the feel of Karbro’s lips on yours, just for the sake of having something. You walk into the living room and look at him in his recliner, he’s still so much motherfucking bigger than you. Even if he is a few inches smaller, the motherfucker is broad as he is tall, and your skinny ass has nothing on him. 

”Good evening, sir” 

”Good evening. Now, do you wanna get to tellin’ me why you’re home so motherfucking late or do I have to be twisting arms?” 

”I was at study group, sir” 

He takes a sip of his whiskey, and something within you motherfucking sours. 

”Study group?” 

”Yessir” 

”I’m glad you’re taking notice of those absolutely atrocious motherfucking grades you’ve got there son. One question though, study group suddenly start smoking cigarettes? ‘Cause last I checked the library ain’t stinkin’ up a storm like you are” 

You feel yourself tense up, everything within you going absolutely rigid. You breathe in through your nose and resist the urge to grab at the rosary beads around your neck, like the motherfuckers will protect you. 

”Well pa, I ran all past those homeless brothers and sisters when I left, gave them the word of the church and told them that if they ever be needing anything then the church would be happy to supply them with miraculous word of the messiah and something warm” 

Your father stares at you for a long time, really up and inspecting your every motherfucking word. It should hold up. It will hold up. Those nice motherfuckers over at the library will vouch for you if he asks, he won’t. He’ll forget after tonight long as you don’t make him angry enough, you know this. 

”Right then, you oughta be heading up to bed. It’s late.” 

”Yes sir, thank you sir.” You take a step back, waiting to make your miraculous motherfucking escape 

”One thing before you go to bed, son.” 

”Yes?” 

”You know not to lie to me right? As your father I just wanna make sure that you never once end up like that brother of yours, not when I’m here to guide you in the lord’s holiest of motherfucking ways.” 

”Of course Pa” 

”Good, you’re sleeping in the prayer room tonight, just as a little reminder. Make sure not to wear all of that muck on your face when you get in there. You know how the lord hates men who hide from him.” 

Your heart seizes all up in your motherfucking chest, but you nod despite it. You won’t sleep tonight, but your motherfucking nap on right before school. When you walk into the prayer room, you feel those eyes you’ve been motherfucking hiding from staring all down at you, and they know. They know all the motherfucking shit you’ve done. Your chest is tight, squeezing all the breath from a motherfucker. You hide behind your hair, refusing the eyes of the mirrors best you can. You wish you had a prayer to memorize, with you had something other than yourself and the messiah and all this broken glass. You wish you were in your van, cuddled all up to Karbro, feeling his miraculous motherfucking warmth seeping into you. 

Your night is spent dozing, and when you see Karbro next, he holds you in his arms. You don’t say much, you can’t, but it doesn’t matter to him. He doesn’t ask because he knows you can’t quite give your motherfucking answer, and you don’t really need to. He doesn’t honestly expect one, and you love him for it. He presses little kisses against your temple and your cheeks, and it makes you clutch on to the motherfucker even tighter. 

Your next honest to motherfucking goodness kiss you share is an endeavor in pure motherfucking wanting, sinful as it is. 

Karbro comes to your van, more flustered than he always is, and rather than engaging you in the most miraculous of motherfucking feelings jams, he plants one right on you. He plants one on you hard and puts that bitter tongue of his right in your mouth for the very first time. He moves fast, trying to prompt some sort of reaction out of you, pulling out that sense of _need_ that you try to keep buried. You rolls all up against you, ripping groans from you, sudden and sinful. It would be good-great-motherfucking miraculous-if not for the look on his face, all motherfucking shaken up and worried. He's hiding something, he's hiding something and offering you such a tender, vulnerable motherfucking part of him for the sake of it. You feel pity wash over you, sudden and strong, guilt eating at you with it. 

You have to be the one to stop him, and despite him kissing you so motherfucking delirious, you do. You frown at your brother, and he looks suddenly sheepish. 

”Is something motherfucking wrong?” 

Had this been another circumstance, a circumstance in which your brother was trying to get his motherfucking sin on with you, you would have agreed. Too many of your motherfucking thoughts are consumed by the idea of it, but this is not that, and look in his eyes tells you that you'd be a motherfucking monster to prey all upon him in this circumstance. He looks at you, eyes wet, and nods. He presses his face right against your chest and you realize that he is wearing his bright red hoodie open, and you’re now motherfucking seeing a black sweater beneath it. It’s nice. It looks so motherfucking soft, and as you pull Karbro closer in your arms, you hope that he’ll stop using this motherfucking hoodie as a hiding place. 

He curls all up into your side, still crying, and you hold him good and close, peppering kisses all against his motherfucking head. 

He doesn’t tell you what happened, not really. Instead, when you ask, he just says: 

”A stupid fucking idiot-no, a fucking shithead monster, is coming back to town for god knows why.” 

And that’s really all you need to know.

You don't kiss his mouth anymore for the rest of the night. Instead, you offer him a tiny gift, and he obliges you. It is on this sweet December motherfucking night, that you give your most important motherfucking brother, your angel, his very first tattoo. It's small, irrelevant really, something nobody but motherfucking him will notice. In the tiniest of letters, right on his wrist, you give him a little diamond, and you give yourself one to match. 

He cries more while getting it and after, you know that it isn't from the motherfucking tattoo. 

It doesn't matter though, it doesn't need to matter. 

"I'd be motherfucking overjoyed to give you another one sometime, just gotta ask bro." You grin at him 

You look at him, in the dim light of the van, and once again he is beautiful, entirely haloed by the lights outside, and you are utterly sure this motherfucker is an angel.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi kudos, comments, etc are greatly appreciated and there is a 99% chance that if you comment I'll reply.
> 
> @tamyura_on twt  
> @porcelain_babies on insta


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